mind were put to sleep, and the subconscious mind awakened, then was the
thing accomplished, then would all the dungeon doors of the brain be
thrown wide, then would the prisoners emerge into the sunshine.

So I reasoned--with what result you shall learn. But first I must tell
how, as a boy, I had had these other-world memories. I had glowed in the
clouds of glory I trailed from lives aforetime. Like any boy, I had been
haunted by the other beings I had been at other times. This had been
during my process of becoming, ere the flux of all that I had ever been
had hardened in the mould of the one personality that was to be known by
men for a few years as Darrell Standing.

Let me narrate just one incident. It was up in Minnesota on the old
farm. I was nearly six years old. A missionary to China, returned to
the United States and sent out by the Board of Missions to raise funds
from the farmers, spent the night in our house. It was in the kitchen
just after supper, as my mother was helping me undress for bed, and the
missionary was showing photographs of the Holy Land.

And what I am about to tell you I should long since have forgotten had I
not heard my father recite it to wondering listeners so many times during
my childhood.

I cried out at sight of one of the photographs and looked at it, first
with eagerness, and then with disappointment. It had seemed of a sudden
most familiar, in much the same way that my father's barn would have been
in a photograph. Then it had seemed altogether strange. But as I
continued to look the haunting sense of familiarity came back.

"The Tower of David," the missionary said to my mother.